Starlight and Shadow
by Elwen Of The Hidden Valley
Summary: Not Glorfindel. Not Arwen but Elrond who meets Aragorn and the hobbits on the way to Rivendell.
1. Chapter 1

Starlight and Shadows

I do not own the characters or main events in this tale. They all belong to JRR Tolkien and his heirs and Peter Jackson and New Line. The story is written as a fanfic only and seeks to make no profit from their work.

 _This tale is a merciless blending of role-play, film, book and imagination; the role- play being done by Frodo Baggins of Bag End and Elwen and I thank Febobe for allowing me to turn our little adventure into a story. We built our tale upon the question: -_

 _What would happen if it had been Elrond, and not Glorfindel, who had met Strider and the hobbits on the road to the Fords of Bruinen? (Hey – if Peter Jackson can send Arwen, why can't we send Elrond?)_

Chapter 1 – Clouds clearing

The only sound in the small campsite was the ragged rasping of Frodo as he struggled to pull air into his aching chest. With the onset of night, the rain that had fallen steadily for most of the day had ceased, but they were all soaked . . . even the food and spare clothing in their packs was damp. Merry and Pippin were busying themselves trying to coax a fire from almost dry kindling they had managed to scavenge from beneath hedges.

Only vaguely aware of his surroundings, Frodo lay where Strider had settled him, beneath the overhanging protection of a group of giant stone figures. Bilbo's trolls towered over even the tall ranger and the hobbits found them rather threatening, even though Strider had assured them that anything Gandalf's killed stayed dead. Sam knelt between the feet of one, trying to soothe his master's distress with the only tools he had, voice and hands.

Strider explored the boundaries of their temporary resting place, his sharp eyes seeking any signs of darker shadow amongst the surrounding gloom of the dripping trees; trained ears ready to act upon the slightest crack of mail shod foot upon twig or rip of tattered robe upon branch.

Glancing up suddenly, he whirled in the direction of the road, just beyond their hiding place. Seeing his sudden movement all the hobbits froze, alarm clear in their faces. With hearing as keen as any ranger they soon detected what had alerted him; the light clip of the hooves of a lone horse upon the metal of the road. Sam swallowed in a dry throat and leaned closer over his master, determined to protect him from further hurt with his own body if necessary. Off to one side their pony, Bill, twitched his ears in the direction of the sound and shuffled uneasily before even he quieted.

For several moments all movement ceased but for the rapid rise and fall of Frodo's chest, as they strained to listen to the advancing hoofbeats. Gradually, another sound was added to the clip; the light jingle of finely wrought harness, and Strider's tense form relaxed visibly. He glanced back at the hobbits.

"I think it's an elf. Wait here and I will look." Before the hobbits could draw breath to protest he was at the edge of their little clearing and he paused only long enough to whisper, "Make haste with that fire," before melting silently into the trees and making for the road.

The Ringbearer shivered. Though the rain had indeed stopped for the moment it brought little comfort for his clothes were soaked through to the skin and the chill from within him had grown steadily and unabated. His only reaction to Strider's instruction was to curl up on his right side, shivering with cold. Sam took his hand, trying to re-assure him, although he was not confident of their safety himself. Master Bilbo had lead him to believe that elves were to be trusted but Sam had discovered that the world beyond the borders of the Shire was every bit as dangerous has his old gaffer had warned and more.

It seemed that nothing in his world would ever be certain again and, as a hobbit, that alarmed him. Hobbits liked everything laid out, plain and simple. Life was intended to be lived as it had always been lived. Tales were all well and good but Sam was not a Baggins, and he took little pleasure in any upsetting of the natural order. Elves were all well and good in a tale but he wasn't too sure how he felt about actually meeting one.

Mr Frodo was supposed to live a quiet life with his books and his friends and yet here he was, close to death and hounded by beings that no sensible soul could imagine existed. And Sam? Sam was should be planting marigolds and digging taters. This was not the natural order of things at all.

"It's all right, Mr Frodo. Strider says it's not a Black Rider" he announced in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. He winced when he heard his own voice quavering and Merry turned around to grimace agreement to the tone, rather than the content.

Half aware of his surroundings the only words that registered with Frodo were "Black Rider" and mention of the name made him shudder anew, as he tried to curl up even tighter, cradling his left arm. He was so worn and weak that any resistance seemed beyond his strength. If their enemies returned now he would be lost. And if he was taken . . . what then?

In the dripping darkness Strider slipped and slid his way through mud and concealed himself in the thick undergrowth that grew close to the verge of the road at this point near the bridge. His ears told him that it was an elven rider but his mind still cried caution. Their enemies were capable of great subtlety and even a ranger of his experience was not immune to their deceptions, especially as weary as he was.

Although the undergrowth provided him with good cover it also restricted his view and the trees grew close, overhanging the road and blocking out what starlight that managed to break through the clouds. He had to rely upon his ears alone. If the rider continued on his present course and speed, however, he would soon draw level with his hiding place. Pulling an arrow from his quiver, Strider hurriedly strung it to his bow and waited, all senses strained to their utmost limits.

The clip of hooves faltered, the light jingle of harness interrupted. Then the sound continued, more slowly. Suddenly the clip-clop became soft thuds as the horse left the compacted surface of the road and moved onto the soft mulch beneath the trees, and Strider realised with some alarm, that the rider was now moving between him and the hobbits. With a smothered oath he spun about, making his way back as quickly and silently as he could.

Three diminutive and frightened faces looked up as horse and rider coalesced from the darkness, like a grey mist in the clearing. Merry and Pippin jumped up and drew their swords, backing towards Sam and Frodo. Their initial alarm faded to curiosity however, when the rider made no further move after several moment. This did not feel like a Black Rider and yet they were very much aware of an air of veiled power within the imposing form. This rider sat tall and proud upon his horse, not stooping and bent as the Black Riders, who huddled over their horse's necks.

The hood of the rider turned unerringly to a shifting shadow in the undergrowth and a firm voice, rich and strong, with a strange musical lilt, issued from the shadowed depths of the cowl.

"Good evening, Estel."

Strider emerged, his scowl brightening to a relieved smile, and he lowered his weapon as the rider reached up with long fingered hands to push back his hood. A noble, strong featured face, high browed and set in a frame of long dark hair, grey eyes almost transparent silver in the pale starlight, was thus revealed.

"Adar!" Caught off guard Aragorn had reverted to his childhood name for the elf but when the rider's finely arched brows rose he quickly corrected himself, returning to the use of Weston for the sake of their audience.

"Lord Elrond. Well met. I am very glad to see you; although how you knew where to find us I do not know." He glanced across at the hobbits, noting for the first time their bravely drawn swords. "All is well, gentlemen. This is Master Elrond of Rivendell."

For long moments they could only stare, open mouthed, at the tall elegantly attired figure, another character from Bilbo's tale. Merry and Pippin glanced at each other and sheathed their weapons and Sam finally shook himself, looking down at his master, eyes filled with wonder. Maybe elves were alright outside of a tale after all.

"It's an elf, Mr Frodo. It's Master Elrond himself! The one Mister Bilbo told us about."

From beneath the protective shelter of Sam's arms Frodo squinted, blinking uncertainly. To him, hovering between two worlds now, the rider seemed almost to shimmer, like soft moonlight through mist.

Dropping lightly from the horse's back Elrond unhooked his saddlebag. He slapped his horse's rump lightly, murmuring something in a language the hobbits did not understand. Apparently released, his mount picked a way daintily around the edge of their campsite and nuzzled up to Bill, the little pony accepting his presence and leaning in, reaching up to snort the elven horse a greeting.

"The breeze brought me news that the Ringbearer was in grave danger and in need of aid so I rode out to meet you." He swung towards the smaller figures, gathered at the far side of the campsite, heavy grey cloak swirling softly about his finely booted feet. Coming beneath his imperious gaze Merry and Pippin found themselves bowing and Strider moved forward to make formal introduction.

"These are the Ringbearer's companions. The two standing are Masters Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took. The other is Samwise Gamgee." Sam did not rise, choosing instead to remain with his master and only nodding when the silver eyes turned upon him, although he feel himself blush, feeling that those ancient orbs were seeing more of him than was right or proper upon a first meeting.

"The Ringbearer, Master Frodo Baggins, lies yonder. The enemy has indeed gravely wounded him and I was hoping to bring him to you swiftly. But we are being pursued and I have had to take a . . . circuitous route."

The elven lord took a moment to incline his head in acknowledgement of the introductions. "Any more circuitous and even I would not have found you. These are not the most hospitable of hills to be lost in at the best of times." Aragorn's lips thinned at the pointed censure but he obviously thought better of any attempt to reply. Flitting across the clearing and dropping fluidly to his knees at Frodo's side, Elrond stripped off wet gloves, rubbing warmth into his hands before laying a gentle palm upon the hobbit's brow. Sam leaned back to allow him room, beginning to trust this tall stranger . . . but not quite enough to leave Frodo completely at his mercy.

Elrond's voice was softer now. "Well met at last, Frodo Baggins."

Still shaking with chill, yet Frodo sighed softly with relief as the large warm hand touched his damp forehead, managing a small smile.

"Lord Elrond . . . I . . . Bilbo . . ." His voice trailed off and he blinked in confusion, looking from stone trolls to Sam and Elrond and back again. "I must be dreaming . . . Sam? Bilbo's stories . . . It can't be real . . . can it?" Desperate blue eyes sought Elrond's. "Are . . . please, are you . . . real?"

Sam's hands found his cold left one, clasping it firmly between both of his and vainly trying to rub some warmth into it. He glanced at Elrond before he smiled down tightly at his friend, trying to pitch his voice in soothing tones, concerned at his master's confusion.

"Mr Bilbo's stories were true. Here's his trolls to prove it." He pointed above them. "Large as life and twice as ugly."

Elrond's grave and ancient eyes met Frodo's and he took the other hand, squeezing it gently in warm fingers, his voice blending with the whisper of the evening breeze in the trees surrounding them. "And I am real, Tithen Pen."

Frodo settled down with a sigh, re-assured by friend and elf. Elrond's gentle touch calmed and warmed him a little, though in perception only, for he remained chilled to the touch, his left hand icy within Sam's grasp. Still, the assurance that this figure was indeed real and not a pain induced hallucination brought some comfort and Frodo managed a faint smile.

It did not need the acuity of elven eyesight to discover the large bloodstain on Frodo's jacket and Elrond began to unfasten the hobbit's shirt and waistcoat. "When did this happen?"

Strider's voice lowered as he returned to speaking Sindarin and hunkered down next to Elrond. "Some days ago. The Ulaer came upon us at Weathertop. I was careless and . . . he was stabbed by the Witch King himself." From a pouch at his belt he produced the hilt of a large knife and held it out to his foster father, who actually flinched back a little. "I did all that I could to treat it but he seems to be getting worse. I think there is some poison at work."

Elrond made no move to accept the hilt but he did scrutinise it carefully as Aragorn turned it this way and that for him. His more experienced eye easily translated the runes of dark power woven into the design carved upon it.

"You could not be expected to foresee all", he conceded. "This was an evil and specially forged blade. Put the hilt somewhere safe and we will dispose of it later."

Returning it to the pouch, Strider sighed, his head drooping. "They trusted me to protect them, Ada."

His foster father softened, laying a firm hand upon his forearm and gripping it in comfort. "And their trust was not misplaced. No other could have brought them this far, unless it be Mithrandir."

Strider finally relaxed a little, watching as his foster father pushed aside shirt and waistcoat, lifting the makeshift dressing to survey the damage to Frodo's shoulder.

"Have you heard from Mithrandir?" asked Strider as his foster father worked.

Elrond shook his head. "Not for some time and that concerns me." He pursed his lips once Frodo's shoulder was exposed to his gaze and, turning to Merry and Pippin, he reverted to common speech once more.

"Gentlehobbits, you had better make haste with that fire. I will need a large pot of hot water in order to tend to your companion."

They started, as though from a dream, and returned to the kindling, setting back to work to produce a respectable flame and place a pan of water to heat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 – A Light In The Shadows.**

Elrond touched fingers to the pulse in Frodo's neck, finding it frighteningly fast and yet weak. "Aragorn, find me Athelas if you can. I have dried leaves with me but they were culled several days ago, for I have been some time upon the road searching for you. They may not hold sufficient virtue for our needs this night."

"I was about to search for some, Adar, but . . . have we time?"

"I dare not move him further without some succour," Elrond replied, his eyes once more upon Frodo.

Familiar with the clipped tone of concern, Aragorn made no further protest, rising promptly and disappearing into the surrounding shrubbery to search diligently for the required herb.

Frodo whimpered, shivering with chill. "Stay with us, Tithen Pen. Do not surrender to the cold and the shadow," Elrond murmured, unclasping and removing his finely woven cloak. Lifting the Ringbearer carefully he wrapped him so that he was completely swathed in its soft woollen folds. Frodo cried out as he was moved; even this, in strong arms long practised in the art of healing, was torture for him, although the respite proved well worth the temporary discomfort. At once he snuggled weakly into the closely woven cloth, making it easy for Elrond to tuck him in securely.

Initially alarmed at his master's cries, Sam calmed as he saw the comfort provided by the cloak and drew up the hood to act as a pillow as Elrond turned his attention to his saddlebag. Intricately wrought armour gleamed briefly beneath an outer robe and it gave Sam little comfort to know that one even as mighty as Elrond would need such protection against the Black Riders.

Elrond sorted carefully through the contents of his luggage, finally producing a small bottle, intricately carved from palest alabaster.

Slipping one hand beneath dark curls he touched the opening to Frodo's cracked lips and leaned close so that the vague blue eyes could focus upon his face. "This is miruvor, the cordial of Imladris. If you can take some it will strengthen you." The Ringbearer swallowed dutifully, trying to take the medicine, though he coughed, nearly choking at one point. Sam glared at the elf accusingly but Elrond paid him no more mind than a gnat, placing gentle fingers at Frodo's throat until he felt him swallow successfully at last.

Although the liqueur had little taste, and did it burn as brandy would, at once the Ringbearer felt some lessening of the shadows within and without and he managed to draw in a deep, shaky breath.

It was at that point that the ranger returned, bearing an ample handful of the long leaves of the Athelas plant and presenting them triumphantly to his foster father.

Elrond turned to Frodo's servant. "Little Master, I will need a cup filled with hot water, when it is ready."

Sam rose and bowed, a little awkwardly. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I ain't no "Master". My name's Samwise Gamgee but most folks just call me Sam and that will do for me." Having said his piece he turned to the fire.

"Thank you . . . Sam," replied the elven lord. The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement, having been put firmly in his place by the sturdy little figure.

"I trust you know what to do with the Athelas, Aragorn. Bring the pot to me when it is ready." His foster son nodded, moving to join the hobbits at the fire.

When Frodo moaned again, as a particularly strong chill shook him, Elrond settled cross-legged upon the spread blanket and lifted the Ringbearer into his lap. Frodo's reaction was immediate and he settled gratefully into the warmth of the body holding him away from the cold earth. If he felt the armour about his carer's chest it did not seem to bother him.

There came a faint voice. "Thank you." Blue eyes blinked, gazing unsteadily up at Elrond's compassionate countenance.

"You are most welcome." Elrond folded back the cloak. "I will need to bathe your arm and side. I promise that I will be as gentle as I may." He began to ease the injured arm from jacket, waistcoat and shirt and, though his shivering increased, Frodo made no attempt to resist the tender fingers.

The rest of the hobbits found themselves dividing their attention between man and elf. By the fire, Strider murmured softly over some bruised Athelas leaves before breathing upon them and casting them into the bowl of warmed water. At once, the small glade was filled with a fresh and wholesome scent and all took a deep restoring breath. As Elrond freed Frodo's arm from his shirt Aragorn brought the Athelas infused water, Sam trotting at his heels, a small cup steaming in his hands.

The ranger set his bowl on the ground within Elrond's reach and produced some soft clean cloths from his own pack for bathing and drying the Ringbearer. Elrond turned his attention to Sam, hovering worriedly at his elbow. Perhaps it would be well to give this one something to do.

"Sam, have you any skill in the identification of herbs?"

Sam drew himself up to his full height, which brought him level with the elf's eyes. Something he found a little disconcerting when he paused to consider that he was standing and the elf was sitting. "I'm a gardener, sir," he asserted nonetheless proudly.

His reply brought forth a nod of approval from the elven lord. "Excellent. Within my bag you will find several packets of dried herbs. Please find one of camomile and add a handful to the cup. You may not recognise the script upon the packet but I am certain that your gardener's nose will recognise the scent. You will also find a wooden box containing pieces of crystallised ginger. Will you recognise that?"

"Yes sir. We use that in the Shire for fevers and the like," Sam replied, eager to show that even in the Shire they had some skill in healing.

"As do I. Please add a piece of ginger too."

Sam placed his cup carefully on the ground and began to pick, somewhat cautiously, through the contents of Master Elrond's saddlebag. He had been raised to think it wasn't right to go rifling through someone else's belongings but it was for Mr Frodo, so he sent up a silent apology to his mam and set to.

Elrond dipped a cloth in the warm Athelas infused water, wringing it out before laying it tenderly upon Frodo's wound. "The tea will reduce your fever and make you a little drowsy, so that the pain is less intense." He merely smiled when Frodo's faint voice drifted up, the perspiration on his body belying his assertion. "Can't have . . . a fever . . . I'm cold."

The hobbit's protests were quieted as Elrond tended him, however. At first he winced at the additional pressure on his wound, inflicting renewed pain. But gradually the warmth and clean scent seemed to seep into both mind and body, comforting him. He went utterly still; eyes fluttering closed in relief, though from his still laboured breathing it was clear that he was not sleeping.

His hand resting firmly upon the cloth, Elrond's ancient grey eyes clouded and he began to whisper in a tongue long forgotten in Middle Earth. Eager at the prospect of at last witnessing some elven magic, Sam looked up from his stirring of the cup and watched in fascination. He started, however, nearly spilling the contents when Frodo cried out weakly, struggling as though stricken with intense pain.

Although he continued to hold the Ringbearer firmly Elrond's eyes narrowed in concern. This was not the reaction he had expected and he began to suspect that there was more to this wounding than was at first evident.

"Where is the pain, Frodo?"

"Shoulder and chest . . . like ice," was all Frodo could reply through his clenched teeth, squirming weakly. Struggling not to cry out again he whimpered, breath coming in ragged waves as perspiration drenched his body and chills wracked his small frame.

Frowning at mention of pain in Frodo's chest, Elrond removed the cooling cloth and tucked the cloak about his charge once more, sparing a concerned glance at the ranger who looked equally worried. Sam leaned closer, desperate to soothe his master if he could. It seemed these mighty folk were not as skilled as they looked and he wished his Mam was still alive. He was certain Bell Gamgee would know what to do. But Mam was not here and the Shire was miles behind them. They only had big folk and elves to rely upon.

Elrond turned to him again. "The cup, please, Sam."

Hands shaking, Sam surrendered the cup, relieved that this medicine at least, he understood. Elrond touched it to Frodo's lips.

"Shhh, Little One. Try a few sips of the tea Sam has prepared. It will ease the pain and warm you."

Sam watched anxiously as his master attempted to drink, sipping weakly, teeth chattering against the rim of the cup, expelling a relieved sigh when Frodo managed to steady himself enough to take a little of the soothing liquid. When Elrond passed him the cup Sam bent closer, encouraging, as he had so often through the recent long days and nights. "There now, Mr Frodo. Just a few drops at a time. You can do it. Come on, now," he coaxed, gently.

Leaving Sam to his chosen task Elrond turned his attention to Aragorn and spoke in Sindarin once more. "I believe there is more at work here than a simple Morgul wounding. It is many years since I have treated such an injury but his reaction is more extreme than I recall. There is little more that I can do for him here, in the wild. I must get him to Imladris as quickly as possible so that I can examine him more fully."

At the fireside Merry and Pippin frowned, beginning to feel rather annoyed that their friend's fate was obviously being discussed and yet they were being excluded.

The ranger nodded. He understood at once what his foster father was implying; with only one pony and on foot the party would travel too slowly. The other hobbits would be upset at the separation but if Elrond decided that Frodo must be moved swiftly, Aragorn had no doubt that matters were grave enough to warrant it.

"I can lead the others behind, Adar."

Elrond nodded at his foster son gratefully. "You will be safe enough I think, but I will send some of my people back to meet you." He lowered his gaze to the blue eyes again, returning to Westron.

"I will bandage your wound when you have finished the tea. Then you must part from your companions so that you and I may ride more swiftly to safety."

At these words Merry and Pippen sprang to their feet and Sam tugged urgently at Elrond's sleeve. "Where are you taking him? There's Black Riders out there looking for him. If they catch you they'll kill him this time. You know they will!" All bravado melted however when ancient grey eyes fell full upon him. The elven lord's voice was not loud, nor was it harsh but it held a calm certainty.

"I am aware of that Sam. I have encountered the Black Riders before and I have their measure."

Taking a last sip, Frodo collapsed back on Elrond's arm, suppressing a weak cough. His voice held its own certainty. "I will not . . . ride with . . . you anywhere . . . leaving my . . . friends behind . . . in danger."

The other hobbits at first thought that Elrond intended to ignore all their protests. "Aragorn, please return my saddlebag to Sindalome." But the healer's eyes were only filled with compassion as he met Frodo's stubborn gaze. "Frodo, your friends will not be in danger, if you are not with them. It is you and that which you carry that the enemy seeks."

The Ringbearer swallowed, nodding grimly, lips clenched in a fine line as he recognised the truth of Elrond's words. The elf took that as permission and folded back the cloak once more to press a soft pad to the hurt and strap it in place with a fine cloth bandage. Frodo shivered but the healer's efforts seemed to soothe and, as Aragorn buckled closed his step father's ornate saddlebag, Frodo quieted in understanding.

"All right I . . . where are we going?"

Sam frowned in concern as he helped Elrond cover the wound. Mister Frodo seemed to be growing increasingly vague and he was not sure how much was attributable to the camomile tea and how much to fever . . . or worse.

"We are riding to Imladris . . . Rivendell," Elrond replied softly, as Sam helped him replace Frodo's clothing and once more wrap the warm cloak closely about their charge. He took time to offer Sam a re-assuring smile then, rising smoothly, gathered Frodo to his chest and called to Sindalome. With a soft wicker of farewell to Bill the tall grey animal trotted calmly across the clearing to his master.

"Rivendell I . . . I've always wanted . . . to see it . . . to go there," Frodo blinked drowsily, as if in a dream, wincing only when he was eased into Aragorn's arms while Elrond mounted Sindalome.

Pippin turned anxiously to his cousin. "Is Frodo all right?"

Merry nodded, although he was not entirely sure. "It's just the camomile I think. Lord Elrond said it would make him sleepy."

Neither felt particularly convinced and Sam was visibly holding himself in place.

"What . . . what's going to happen?" Frodo murmured, his blue eyes staring dreamily. "Can I . . . go to sleep there?"

He was handed up and settled in front of Elrond, one strong arm about his waist, and Elrond's warm voice seemed to drift into his mind.

"Yes, Tithen Pen. You may sleep there." The elven lord spared a final glance at three frightened and worried little hobbits gathered about the tall ranger.

"I will care for Frodo as I would care for one of my own sons and I leave you in the safe keeping of my foster son."

The hobbit's eyes widened, following Aragorn as he handed up the reins. Elrond met Ada's steady grey gaze. "I will send help. Take care, Estel."

The mortal touched his foster father's hand. "And you. Remember that even elves are not immune to sword or arrow."

At Elrond's murmured command the horse stepped off lightly into the night, bearing its precious passenger and watched by four anxious pairs of eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 – Starlight Gathering**

"Try to rest, Frodo. Sindalome's gait is light and smooth."

Frodo leaned back against his caregiver as best he could. The horse's gait was indeed smooth and sure and Elrond's hold secure but he began to feel miserable nonetheless, whimpering as the swaying made him feel sick and jostled his shoulder.

"I'm going to be sick. Can't I . . . lie down? Or at the least . . . go more slowly?"

A touch of the reins and Sindalome slowed and halted. "I dare not ride more slowly. Our enemies are too close."

Frodo whimpered, his features taking on a grey hue. Elrond considered for a moment, finally dropping reins and lifting him gently across his lap. Wrapping both arms around him he drew the mop of dark curls to rest against his chest.

"Is that more comfortable?"

"Yes . . . yes, thank you." Frodo snuggled more deeply into the folds of Elrond's cloak, curling up against the warmth of his body appreciatively. "That's better . . . Is Rivendell . . . far?"

"Not too far." The Master of Rivendell squeezed his legs gently to Sindalome's flanks and the horse responded at once, moving from trot to canter and then to a smooth gallop with no further urging.

But with each step the Lord of Imladris grew more uneasy, rather than less, and he took a more secure hold on the Ringbearer, allowing Sindalome his head.

His unease was far from baseless. The darkness began to press more closely about them and patches of deeper black gathered within it, although as yet some distance behind them. Their presence was not hidden from an elven spirit, however, and Frodo too responded, sinking lower in his protector's strong arms, sweat breaking out chill upon his brow once more.

Elrond's calm voice was audible, even above the wind rushing in Frodo's ears and the frantic pounding of his heart. "Hold on, Ringbearer. They will not take you while I still draw breath."

Of a sudden, to left and right, the elven lord sensed other presences converging upon them and he called an urgent command to his mount. "Noro lim, Sindalome!"

At the very last moment Sindalome did indeed find more speed from somewhere and dashed between the two dark shapes that flew at them from the trees on either side. Elrond ducked low over Frodo as the trailing edge of one tattered black robe fluttered past their faces in a rush of air as cold and dank as the tomb.

Frodo cried out, trembling violently, his breath catching. Yet, even now, Elrond could sense the small hobbit's will focussing, struggling desperately to keep his right hand from reaching for something.

There was an answering shriek from the increasing company of pursuing riders. Elrond risked a glance behind as four, then six . . . no . . . seven, joined the other two. Beneath Elrond's cloak the Ringbearer's trembling redoubled, his teeth chattering, still fighting to resist.

Hearing the siren call in his own mind the elven lord commanded, "Do not surrender to it", his voice dropping clear and firm in the Ringbearer's mind once more. "We are nearly at the Fords of Bruinen. The river will protect us. Hold on."

Frodo's sluggish mind struggled with the concept of a river protecting them from such a terrible foe but he could do nothing but hold on as instructed, as Sindalome gathered himself beneath them. Suddenly they were weightless, soaring in mid air, before landing with a jolt and a loud splash of spray, in the shallow waters of the Fords. The horse barely paused, continuing on across the wide river. Frodo felt a surge and they were up the far bank.

Elrond called another command and Sindalome skidded to a halt and wheeled about neatly on his hind feet to face the line of dark figures poised upon the farther shore.

Nine kings of men faded into darkness, and among them their lord, Angmar's king of old, the Witch King. He wrestled his dark and snorting mount forward, glittering eyes staring out from hood and helm towards Earendil's last living son and the diminutive Ringbearer.

"So, Elrond Halfelven." The mocking tone crawled upon the wind to the Master of Imladris. "You think yourself mightier than the Dark Lord of Mordor? Ah . . . high and mighty, are we not?"

The form that would be head inclined slightly, lowering, the voice taking on an enticing, almost sing-song lilt. "Put it on, Baggins. Take the Ring . . . you have but to slip it upon your finger."

Beneath Elrond's cloak there was a palpable increase in the slight form's trembling . . . and a sway. Frodo grew dizzy and faint, blinking without focus as he attempted vainly, though valiantly, to draw his sword . . . and then came a faint but defiant voice.

"Go back . . . Go back to the land of Mordor and follow me no more!"

Smiling now, the Lord of Imladris, secret wielder of Vilya, one of the three elven rings of power, drew himself up to his full and not inconsiderable height. Silver grey eyes seemed to gather starlight to them and a pale glow began to surround him. The Peredhil's voice was low and yet the night breeze carried it clearly to his enemy as he drew Frodo more tightly in his embrace.

"At least I am still the master of my own fate. If you consider yourself mightier than I, in your master's strength, you will have no difficulty in wresting the Ringbearer from me. Perhaps you would care to try?" With those words Elrond unsheathed his own sword, shifting Frodo in one arm.

Icy laughter insinuated itself in Frodo's mind and he whimpered as the air chilled, searing his throat and lungs. The Lord of the Nazgul raised his head, his mirth splintering upon the stone walls of the canyon.

"I would, but I have no need thereof. The Ringbearer will come to me, with time . . . and he will flee your arms willingly enough. Already it is too late."

Frodo moaned softly, leaning heavily against Elrond's arm as if in a faint. Although his voice was weakening a few words remained audible.

"By Elbereth . . . and Luthien the Fair . . . you shall have neither . . . the Ring . . . nor me." But the hobbit's strength was waning rapidly and his words faded into silence.

Elrond's mind assessed swiftly the implication of the Witch King's words, guessing at last, what may be happening to the Ringbearer. But the enemy was worried enough that Frodo would elude him that he was willing chase him closely, and that brought the elf some hope. There may yet be time.

His answering laugh was rich, full of life and strength, although at the same time his hand was desperately fumbling within Frodo's jacket to find some sign of the hobbit's heartbeat.

"You sense him slipping from the light, do you?" he taunted. "But think you that, even as a wraith, the little one would be any match for Earendil's son? Half elven I am called, but the blood of Elenwe of the Vanyar flows also in my veins. It is I who hold him at present and it is I, therefore, who hold that which your . . . master . . ." Elrond spat the title from his lips, "so greatly desires."

The elf lord's voice took on a sardonic twist. "If you think your leash is long enough you may try to fetch it . . . like the good little hunting dog that you are."

His fingers finally detected the heartbeat . . . weak and barely perceptible . . . but still there, fluttering like a caged bird within its frame of ribs. Frodo's life was ebbing, like the flow of blood from an unstaunched wound. Much further delay would render verbal conflict moot in the matter of Frodo's life; the Ring would triumph again, its master perhaps smiling sardonically in his distant tower.

Yet the truth of the words of the Lord of Imladris was not lost upon Shadow and the Ulaer all sensed that truth. The One Ring must not fall into Elrond's hands. Now that Isildur's Bane had been found Sauron would brook no delay in its return to his hand. Thus the Witch King advanced, trotting his reluctant mount into the crystal waters of the Fords of Bruinen with an eerie grace as his compatriots followed . . . kings of the realm of Shadow.

But more starlight seemed to gather about Earendil's son. He drew a deep breath and waited as first one, then three, six, eight, nine black horses stood in the shallow icy water of the river that flowed from the valley of Imladris, Elrond's home. The Witch King was almost within reach of the Ringbearer, stretching forth his gauntleted hand, when the shimmering starlight was suddenly sucked into the elf's body and Elrond's steel grey eyes locked unflinchingly upon the dark cowl before him, meeting and holding the baleful glare of his enemy.

The voice of Elrond, Lord of Imladris, held no fear, only firm command: -

Nin o Chithaeglir

Lasto beth daer;

Rimmo nin Bruinen

Dan in Ulaer"

The final words were almost lost in a loud rumbling roar from upstream. The Lord of Imladris did not move, but his eyes shone in triumph as he saw his foes glance in surprise towards the sound, the eyes of their night black horses rolling white in alarm.

A large wall of water crashed down upon riders and mounts, its foaming crest graced with the tossing heads and flowing manes of pale horses; light coming against the darkness.

Within an instant the Black Riders were swallowed by the churning and violent current, a flood of pure water rising up against them, sweeping away all trace of their filth in a crescendo of noise.

Yet Elrond was listening to a different song. The fragile music beneath his hand thinned and Frodo sank, sagging limply against his protector's arm, held on the horse only by this support. Earendil's son was not yet spent, however. Throwing aside his sword he leaned Frodo back in his arms, all pride and anger gone and only compassion in his voice.

"Not yet, Tithen Pen. It is not time to leave, Frodo Baggins. Take hold of the light." With those words the elven healer unwound a long thread of starlight from his own fea, lowering it into the mist gathering about the Ringbearer's soul. "Lay hold, Frodo", he pleaded.

Yet there was no response. The small form lay motionless, sinking slowly into the grey mist, his body lax. His open right hand showed fine crescents of blood across the palm, the marks of deep pressure from fingernails desperately tightened into a fist. Although the blue eyes were still open, what focus there once was, and even the struggle for it, had gone.

But then the healer found it . . . the tiniest of threads . . . a minute mithril filament, fragile and sheer as gossamer, reaching tentatively towards him. Stretching into the mist as far as he dare and farther yet, holding on to his own thread of starlight, Elrond finally caught the fine silken tendril, and with the skilful touch of a master surgeon, he tied it firmly to his own cord.

Struggling upward from the cold cloying mist, Elrond surfaced into the physical world once more. Blinking and drawing a much needed breath he brought his surroundings into focus and touched his legs to his mount's flanks, finding only enough breath to murmur, "Home, Sindalome."

The tall horse broke into a canter and then an easy gallop as he followed the familiar pathways to his home, needing no further guidance from his weary master. Elrond pulled Frodo closer as even the hobbit's shivering ceased, an ill sign for the limp body was icy to the touch, the left shoulder and side most of all. Blue eyes rolled upward to hide behind pale, dark lashed lids and there was scant sign to the outside world that the Ringbearer yet lived.

Fortunately, Elrond's household had not been idle during his absence and as the travellers reached the Last Homely House a group of riders came out to meet them. One of Elrond's sons, Elladan drew in rein, his fair features anxious but steady.

"Adar, we have everything prepared for the Ringbearer. A room is readied and Erestor is sitting with Bilbo, who still sleeps."

Elrond paused only long enough to instruct Glorfindel and the other riders where to find Aragorn and his weary party, and then he and Elladan continued into the courtyard.

As they clattered to a halt before the wide porch Elrond released his feet from the stirrups, swinging his leg forward over Sindalome's neck and sliding to the cobbles, still holding Frodo in his arms, for he dare not break the physical link between them now. Running smoothly up the steps and into the house, both elves ignored the curious glances of others of the household as Elladan lead the way to the chamber prepared.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 – A new dawn**

Elrond was already issuing instructions as he entered the room. "We must ready a warm bath to immerse him. I will need to raise his temperature before I dare attempt any surgery. And it is yet too dark."

Elrohir had already anticipated his father's needs and before the fire sat a small filled tub. On a rack at the hearth were hung cloths and towels to warm and Elrohir was readying the bed with hot wrapped stones and water bottles. A table filled with medicines stood nearby. He looked up as his father swept into the room, his blue grey eyes going at once to the pathetic bundle in Elrond's arms.

"Adar, what else may I do to help?"

Frodo remained quiet, feeling as cold as a mortal body many hours past death, and Elrohir would have thought his fight lost were it not for his father's evident concern.

"Help me to undress and put him into the warm water. He has been stabbed by a Morgul blade. Have you my surgical pack?" Wasting no time, Elrond lowered the tiny hobbit onto the huge bed, unwrapping his cloak and picking at the buttons of Frodo's still damp jacket.

Their father's news elicited a sharp intake of breath from both twins and Elrohir bent to help as Elrond continued. "From the words I exchanged with . . . a representative of our enemy . . . I believe a splinter from the knife is moving towards his heart."

"Your instruments are on the table, Adar." Elrohir worked swiftly, easing off Frodo's breeches. From the foot of the bed Elladan could only watch.

"Adar . . . he is smaller even than Bilbo . . . how could he withstand for so long?" That this diminutive mortal had withstood not only the poison of a Morgul wound but was resisting a shard of the knife that had dealt that wound was incredible to the elf. But Elrond had no time to answer.

Waistcoat and shirt swiftly followed jacket until the pale form lay exposed at last. Through it all Frodo made not even a whimper, lying unresisting as they moved him this way and that. The bandage was cut away and the wound on his shoulder lay fully exposed to the light at last. Still open, although it no longer bled, the flesh surrounding it was now shot through with a fine network of black and red filaments, stretching across almost to the centre of his chest and down into his arm.

With infinite tenderness the elven healer lifted Frodo. The tiny arms and legs hung limply, his head lolling upon Elrond's arm like a child's abandoned rag doll. He was quickly wrapped in a warmed blanket and for the first time since the Fords, Frodo stirred. The little hobbit's trembling resumed and soft whimpers escaped his cracked lips, welcome signs of life despite the obvious pain.

The twins barely managed to avoid averting their eyes, still and silent, before the sight of the pitiful mortal. Their father, in contrast, looked down at the little figure, settling him in the crook of one arm as he stroked Frodo's brow in comfort.

"I am sorry, Tithen Pen. I know you are in pain. I will try to help you soon."

Elrohir was first twin to stir, retrieving some leaves from the table of medical supplies. "We have Athelas, fresh culled from the garden. Shall I add them to the bath water?"

"Yes." Elrond looked up at his other son, who was still watching, silent. "Elladan, please go to my room. In my dresser drawer, you will find a fine mithril chain. Thread the Ring upon it. I believe it is to be found in his waistcoat breast pocket." Elrond's next instruction was issued in a tone that left no room for error. "Do not touch the ring with bare flesh and even then handle it as little as possible."

"Yes Adar." Elladan replied in a tone of absolute obedience. Within minutes, Elrohir had added the Athelas to Frodo's bath and was unbuckling his father's armour by the time his brother returned.

Elladan fished the Ring from Frodo's waistcoat, using a square of silk to hold it as he threaded it swiftly onto the fine chain, deftly adjusting his grip to hold Isildur's Bane for only the instant it took to pass the chain through its centre. Elrond saw the grimace as his son felt the touch of such evil, even through the layers of protecting silk. Then he watched in growing disquiet as the grimace turned to wonder.

"Elladan." His father's voice stung like the crack of a whip, instantly drawing him back from the brink. "Pay no heed to its promises. They are only the illusion of light to hide a pit of darkness."

Elladan nodded tersely, dropping the ring at once and letting it dangle from his fingers, held some distance from him upon its new chain.

If Frodo understood what was happening he did not or could not express it. Elrond's gentle presence seemed to calm him a little but he still emitted little mews of pain, tensing and shivering. Heavy eyelids fluttered but did not lift even at Elrond's raised voice.

Once Elrohir had finished extricating his father from his light armour Frodo was carried to the tub, unwrapped and lowered slowly into the warm water. Elrond supported him there for a few moments, trying to reinforce the bright chord tying the hobbit to his protector and satisfied when he heard the tiny glimmer of song, a faint tentative few notes. Even so the little one was frightened, fragile, and barely able to discern flickering starlight from the dark cloud threatening to overwhelm him.

Taking up a cloth, the healer sleuced warm water over Frodo's shoulders, paying particular care to the left. All the while his heart listened to the faint song of the soul strung so carefully to his. Accepting a small cake of soap from Elladan, Elrond began the task of cleansing Frodo of the grime of his journey. Even his hair was washed, the mop of dark curls rinsed with a fresh jug of warm water.

As his father tended Frodo, Elrohir added Athelas to basins of hot water set about the room, releasing a wholesome scent and adding warmth and moisture to the air to ease their charge's breathing. Pulling a large thirsty towel from the warming rack Elrond finally lifted Frodo from the tub and wrapped him closely.

"Just a little longer, Frodo."

The warmth had wrought the tiniest of improvements in the hobbit and he stirred, although his breathing was still ragged and uneven. No colour had returned to the alabaster features however, and he remained as pale as death. The bath had brought some warmth back to Frodo's body but his poisoned left side was still icy cold.

Elrohir watched. "Would some warm broth help?"

His father's voice held a note of approval. "Add some miruvor to the broth. We will try him with a few spoonfuls but I dare not wait too much longer before attempting to destroy the shard. It draws closer to his heart." As if to underline the healer's statement, Frodo was shaken by another chill.

Elrond lowered him onto warmed sheets and pillows, removing the damp towel before pushing hot water bottles close and covering the trembling form. Meanwhile Elrohir did as instructed, bringing the mixture to the bedside.

Although the warmth seemed to ease Frodo, as soon as Elrond let him go he cried out, his breathing worsening. The elven lord's smooth brow furrowed slightly, and then he pushed back the covers and lifted Frodo into his arms once more. Elrohir watched in amazement as his father settled upon the bed, pulled a pillow across his lap and laid the hobbit upon it, drawing the blankets up to cover them both. Frodo's breathing eased and, thus comforted; he went limp against the pillow with a small sigh.

Letting go a relieved sigh of his own the healer met his sons questioning eyes. "Touch seems to reinforce the bond between us."

When Elrohir's face reflected his brother's confusion Elrond explained further. "He was failing. The only way I could hold him to life was to tie him to my own fea. I will release him when he is strong enough."

Elladan was shocked. "Was that wise, Adar? He could yet be overcome?"

Elrond's reply brooked no further questions. "We still have a little time before that happens."

Elladan looked as though he would pursue the issue but at that moment Elrohir stepped forward with the cup, handing it to his father who held it to Frodo's lips, looking for some response from the hobbit.

"Try just a little, Frodo. It will warm you." He trickled a few drops between lax lips and watched closely for the swallow reflex, experiencing considerable relief when it came.

Although he had not the strength to reply to his carer Frodo swallowed as though parched. He had taken little fluid in many days and almost anything was welcome. The savoury drink coursed warmly through his blood, imparting a little strength at last.

"Slowly, Tithen Pen . . . here," whispered the elf as he offered more. Grey eyes, icy and hard as forged steel before the Witch King only hours before, were now as soft as warm summer rain.

Both Elladan and Elrohir observed, as their father managed to coax the hobbit into accepting sustenance. The twin's voices were low as they expressed their awe once more.

"How could someone so small withstand both ring and blade for so long?"

"He looks almost like a child."

"And yet he is an adult and he most certainly did not behave as a child when confronted with The Nine," their father advised firmly. "And he can hear you", he chided. If Frodo could indeed hear them he made no acknowledgement, concentrating all his energies upon accepting much needed fluid.

Elrond glanced up as he noticed the first intimation of his shadow upon the wall, turning to the long windows in time to see a pale, pre dawn glow outlining the jagged edges of the surrounding mountain peaks.

"It is time," he announced simply.

A feather light touch of warm fingers brushed Frodo's cheek. "I hope you can understand me, Frodo. I need you to lie very still while I work. I am going to attempt to dissolve the shard of the Morgul blade within you." He waited, watching the pale face intently for any sign of understanding.

His reward was the faintest flutter of heavy eyelashes and Frodo whimpered, curling more tightly in Elrond's lap. Then came a voice; faint but Frodo's nonetheless. "I'll . . . try."

Gentle hands turned Frodo onto his back and Elrond folded back the covers to expose his pale chest with its mottled stain. It no longer rose and fell in desperate gasps, instead, hardly moving at all with each inspiration.

From the table at the bedside the healer selected a dark glass bottle and removed the tightly rag sealed stopper, releasing acrid fumes that made Elrohir draw back suddenly, in alarm. It was Elladan who handed over a dropper, which his father filled with thick black liquid, wiping away excess fluid before resting it in a waiting dish and replacing the stopper firmly.

Elrond took a deep breath, his grey eyes focussing on some unseen point in the distance as he moved his hand scant inches above Frodo's chest, finally bringing one finger to rest at a point just to the left of the small sternum.

Elrohir's eyes widened. "So close?"

His father nodded calmly as he lifted a small sharp knife and glanced at the window. "I dare wait no longer," he announced.

The first direct rays of the sun flashed upon the edge of the finely honed blade, cleansing it as the healer brought it down swiftly. So sharp was it that it met no resistance from Frodo's flesh, biting down cleanly to make a small, deep incision. Few but elven hands could have found such an unerring path between bone, artery and organ. A faint, dull "chink" sounded as blade met blade.

There was a sharp cry from Frodo but Elrohir placed steady hands upon him, to prevent any motion as his father worked. Tears flowed freely from beneath Frodo's thick lashes and he sobbed, his breathing ragged once more as he cried out in pain.

Elrond was all business now and only paused to issue a terse warning to his charge as he set aside the blade, now gored with Frodo's blood. "This will hurt." Frodo could not imagine being in any more pain than he was at present.

To the twins Elrond simply said, "Do not inhale the fumes."

With blood slick fingers either side of the fresh wound he prised the edges apart while inserting the dropper to deposit some of the viscous black liquid at the very base of the incision. A tiny column of vile smelling pale green smoke spiralled upwards.

The sharp wail this elicited caused the twins to wince. Frodo did not struggle against Elrohir's restraint . . . but his sobs shifted to a keening cry, an eerie, heartbreaking wailing. This time Elladan did look away . . . unable to bear the sight and wishing he could turn away from the sound as easily.

As soon as the smoke dissipated Elrond gathered Frodo to him, headless of the blood on his fine clothing, rubbing the shaking back and rocking gently, murmuring low.

"It is over. The splinter is dissolved and I will inflict no further pain upon you, I promise. Shhhhh. Just a soft bandage and then you may rest."

Frodo cried out no more, simply releasing breathless sobs against his caregiver's chest. When he judged his charge calmed sufficiently the healer lowered Frodo back onto his pillow and placed some pads of clean linen over both wounds, fixing them in place with a wide soft bandage.

"Elladan, please bring me the Ring and a small cup of miruvor."

As his brother obeyed, Elrohir carefully wiped the blood from his father's hands.

Elladan obliged, carrying the Ring by its chain, scrupulously avoiding even eye contact with the evil object. As Elrond accepted it a beam of sunlight touched the gold and he found himself considering it for several moments, head tilted to one side, listening. The fingers of one elegant hand moved inexorably towards the gleaming metal and his sons held their breath.

There was a small gasp and Elrond found his gaze drawn down into deep blue eyes. Frodo laid quietly looking up at him, a strange mixture of hope, fear and longing in the pain shadowed azure. Elrond, the Lord of Imladris shook his head slightly, as if to rid it of an unwelcome voice and quickly slipped the chain over Frodo's head.

For his part the Ringbearer's eyes slid shut once more and he whimpered weakly with discontent. His breathing seemed to worsen, as though the Ring weighed heavily upon his chest, although he did accept the proffered liquid.

"You should sleep now, Frodo."

Slowly, the cornflower blue eyes opened again. Frodo stared up at Elrond, blinking slowly, bemused by pain. "Can't," he whispered faintly.

"If you are in too much pain I can give you a tincture."

Frodo shook his head as Elrond made to rise. "Please stay." The fingers of the hobbit's right hand clung to the edge of Elrond's robe. "I'm sorry . . . please, I know it . . . sounds foolish, but . . . I don't want to be left alone yet."

Elrond's gaze fell upon the golden circle, quiescent now and seeming so innocent where it lay upon Frodo's chest.

"Please." Frodo's tone was desperate . . . the hobbit fairly begging.

For a long moment Elrond considered. "I will stay."

Blue eyes slid shut upon a soft sigh. Elrond settled him more comfortably upon the pillow and Frodo's breathing began to grow steady and calm at last.

The ancient healer leaned back; small form resting trustingly in his lap, and remembered happier days from his own long life. Once he and Celebrian had sat thus, a tiny dark haired son curled in each of their laps. If The One was destroyed he could be with Celebrian once more, sons at their side. But would Arwen be there? And would they be leaving a Middle earth of darkness or of light?

Elrond looked upon the now slumbering form as he recalled the vivid dream that had thrust him out into the wilds in search of Frodo Baggins. Elrond had informed only one other of that vision. Galadriel keep her own council however, and if she discerned more, she revealed nothing to Elrond.

He would have advised Gandalf but no word had been heard from the grey pilgrim for many weeks, a situation which Elrond found uncomfortable. But speed was of the essence now so tomorrow he would go ahead with the council meeting the vision had shown him and hope that Mithrandir would arrive in time.

On the morrow he would cut loose Frodo's fea but Elrond knew that he would continue to hear hobbit and ring until both reached their end. Of the manner of that ending Elrond's vision had revealed nothing. He hoped that it would not be that hobbit and ring ended together. Then he recalled the emotions swirling in those blue eyes as The One hung between them and a part of him wondered if it would not be kinder thus.

THE END


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